


The Fires Have Died Down

by baku_midnight



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Canon, The Shire, tiny bit of melancholy but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin and his nephews survive the final battle, and Bilbo leaves Erebor without a word to him, their relationship not so much fractured, as dissolved entirely... Which is what Bilbo thinks, for years, as he gets used to living a domestic life again, going to market and coming home again, until he has barely any concept of a time when his life was defined by anything other than a peaceful home life and seven square meals a day. And which is why, when an old dwarf king shows up at his door nearly a decade later, Bilbo has no idea what to make of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fires Have Died Down

The fires have died down, the gentle simmering of candles taking their place on the long-cold hearths of Erebor. It is by nothing short of a miracle that the king and his kin survived the last battle, their bodies spent and their minds wracked with torment that will last an age – but with no injury severe enough as to keep any of them from further battle, Bilbo thinks with a sort of unhappy surety.

 

Thorin, Fili and Kili recover in the infirmary, admonishing scrapes and bruises their only foes at the moment – but not all wounds are healed with medicine, Bilbo realizes now, as he stands outside Thorin’s room, watching the mighty king slumber.

 

“There, our king sleeps,” Balin spooks Bilbo from his solitary reverie, appearing across the doorway with a smile on his face that reaches all the way up to his kindly eyes, “peacefully, I imagine.”

 

Bilbo nods, but he can’t share in Balin’s obvious joy. Relief is there, a constant, soothing warmth in his chest, but the anxiety of loss and betrayal is in him too, poisoning the edges of his mood.

 

“He’ll recover, then?” Bilbo asks softly, lips thinning into a thoughtful line.

 

“Aye, in time,” the dwarf answers simply, “the lads, too, Mahal be blessed.”

 

There’s a knot in his chest that doesn’t diminish with Balin’s kind words, it just gets bigger, thicker, until it’s crawling up his throat, threatening to choke him. Before the tears behind his eyes give him away Bilbo turns to leave, lowering his gaze to the stone floor, his bare feet stark against the black shale.

 

“Won’t you go in?” Balin asks, so sincerely, when Bilbo looks at him he thinks for a moment he could lose his courage entirely, and fall quite pathetically into the old dwarf’s arms, and heave the sobs he’s been denying himself these last miserable weeks. But instead he swallows sharply, head raised high.

 

“No, I’m sure he needs his rest.” Bilbo sees the diminishing look in Balin’s eyes and hastens to add, “perhaps later. Later, I’ll be back.”

 

The lie is sour in his mouth, but not as sour as the betrayal that still stings the back of his throat like bile. The crazed look in Thorin’s eyes as the dwarf cast him aside like expired goods. The bruise of cold stone under his body as he fell, discarded, upon the lifeless ground. Not all wounds are healed with medicine; only the heedless traversing of time will shed light upon his darkened heart.

 

*

 

He visits Fili and Kili; the darling lads are all smiles when he’s around, with none of the anxiety with which the other members of the company approach him. They are so young, they don’t understand.

 

Bilbo doesn’t see any more of the party, briefly pausing to greet Balin in the hall and tell him farewell, before packing and leaving, taking only a pony. A member of the dwarven guard insists on accompanying him, at least as far as the Misty Mountains. They travel in silence for a good three weeks before the stoic lad departs, and by then Bilbo has hired a stalwart Dunedain ranger to act as guide across the mountains and Troll Shaws. He has little concern about making the journey from there to the Shire alone, and the company is not nearly as...bombastic as he’s used to, so he bids the journeyman leave as soon as they clear the dank woods.

 

There were many places Bilbo wanted to visit on the return journey, so many towns and inns left unvisited, so many vistas left un-viewed, but he can’t bring himself to give any place its due time. He knows it’s likely he’ll never have the chance to visit these places again, yet he can’t bring himself to stop, and travels the rest of the long journey home without pause.

 

It seems a shame to leave such opportunities to expire, but he can’t seem to be sad about it. At least, not sad enough to stop. It feels like a cloud is hanging over him, obscuring the sun even when it shines brightest above him, in the height of spring. The grasses swishing under his feet are cold, parting around him as if they cannot stand his company.

 

*

 

When Bilbo gets home to Bag End, he settles back into his old routine as easily as if he never left it –- a testament to just how long he’d been idle, he supposes, as he turns out the drapes and comforters and lays them on the fence posts, to try and blow away some of the dust. Mould grows in the cellar, even under the gaffer’s careful observation as housekeeper, and dust lines every piece of furniture, but otherwise the manor is unharmed, and unchanged. Cleaning gives Bilbo something to occupy his mind, and for a good three days he does nothing but, sorting out his belongings and deciding which ones he wants to keep and which will go into storage, sorting his papers and business and throwing out the old bits.

 

Living in Hobbiton again after a year and a half away is undeniably quiet, but Bilbo falls into routine easily enough. He greets his fellows with a put-on smile and many of them express that they hardly noticed he was gone. Not a single one of them wants to know about where he went, anyway, save for his Took cousins, but they are so very absent-minded and foolhardy it’s impossible to discuss things with them in any serious manner. The hobbits of Hobbiton would rather keep on living as though there is nothing beyond their borders but more pastoral greenery, gentle hills and lulling rivers as far as the imagination can stretch, which is admittedly not very far for most hobbits. So Bilbo keeps his whereabouts to himself, keeping to his garden and books, leaving his neighbors quite out of his affairs.

 

Bilbo had always been a solitary sort, anyway. He never felt the need to share his interests with friends, and he would be just as happy spending a whole afternoon reading alone and never bothering to greet his neighbors at all. And fortunately, his wealth afforded him that freedom: there was no need for him to leave the house save for when he _wanted_ to, with no farm to tend or vocation to practice. He was aware that made him seem quite the recluse, especially as his age grew higher and his presence in town scarcer.

 

But Bilbo had little concern for what others thought of him, especially now. It was impossible to invest interest in the petty disputes over the differing fashions of _waistcoats_ , when he’d spent a year being chased up trees by foul creatures with gnashing jaws, for the sake of restoring a lost people to their kingdom. There was no reconciling the concerns over the price of sweet potatoes with the loss of a fair city to dragon’s flame.

 

But despite this - despite his growing disinterest with the local happenings, the disputes, the routines - Bilbo gets used to living alone in Bag End again, and for years, the pattern continues in the same way it always had. None of the company are ever seen under his roof again, save for Gandalf, of course. Dear, thoughtful Gandalf visits every year without fail, most often in the summer, when travelling is easy, but in winter on occasion, settling inside the hobbit-hole for a spot of hot tea and a good chat.

 

For years, Bilbo gets used to living easily, domestic through-and-through by the time the decade mark approaches. For years, he travels the same paths every day, going to market and coming home again, attending the occasional party put on by relatives down the road. For years, he settles his routine, until he has barely any concept of a time when his life was defined by anything other than a peaceful home life and seven square meals a day.

 

Which is why, when an old dwarf king shows up at his door nearly nine years later, Bilbo has no idea what to do.

 

The knock on the door is particularly jarring for how late at night it comes; Bilbo is nearly settled down completely for supper when the rhythmic banging – three times in languid succession – echoes through his household. With a distinct and sour feeling of déja-vu, Bilbo gets to his feet and goes to answer the door, pulling at the heavy iron doorknob and revealing the dwarf on the other side.

 

 _Thorin,_ his mind rushes to utter in shock, but he doesn’t say a thing, mouth clamping shut as he stares up at the old dwarf stood before him on his front step. His hand stays fixed to the edge of the door, waiting, eyes fixed to Thorin’s face, the greying hairs on his head, the impossible length of his beard, and the sagging lines beneath his eyes. The dwarf is carrying nothing but a small travelling pack under one arm, and a sword against his hip - no armour, only a thick fur coat and stole laid loosely around his shoulders.

 

“Good evening,” Thorin mutters, clearing his throat.

 

“Good evening,” Bilbo answers.

 

“Forgive my sudden appearance; I suppose you did not receive my letter?” Thorin asks, and Bilbo shakes his head.

 

“Perhaps it was lost on the road,” Thorin adds so immediately, Bilbo thinks for a moment that it’s an abject lie, and no such letter was ever sent. It would be awfully impolite to show up uninvited at someone’s house without sending a letter alerting them ahead of time, but of course, not out of character for this particular dwarf and his kin.

 

They hover there for another long moment, Thorin shifting back and forth on his feet, as if the quality of the doormat is quite alarming to him. After a long few months’ walk, that must indeed be the case. Bilbo stares the dwarf up and down – the years have been kind on his handsome face, the few lines cut his skin a bit deeper beside his nose and eyes, though the very long beard does make him look aged beyond his station.

 

The king looks very put-upon, that he should have to ask permission to enter someone’s home, and for a moment, it makes Bilbo want to chuckle at the dwarf’s position: ruler of the largest kingdom of dwarves, made to stand and wait at a halfling’s step. And well he should wait. It’s the least respect he can afford.

 

“Come in,” Bilbo says softly, and removes his hand from the door so that Thorin can enter. The dwarf comes through, gently holding the heavy wood back, and pulling it, quite assertively, closed behind him. For a moment, he freezes, realizing his imposition, acting as though it was his own door to close, but Bilbo ignores it, and they go inside.

 

Thorin sits in the easy chair by the hearth while Bilbo sets another place at the table. They share the food in silence – there was only enough fish prepared for one, but Bilbo manages to gather up enough scones, ham and cheese to make up a second plate. Thorin thanks him quietly and then eats in silence, hands heavy on the unmarked wooden tabletop.

 

Bilbo comes back into the living room and finds the dwarf seated in the small chair, hands folded in his lap, so politely and quietly Bilbo almost doesn’t recognize him. Not that he should be able to –- nearly a decade has passed between them, like a river cutting across a dell, sinking deep into the earth, a fissure. The dwarf is staring absently into the fire in the fireplace, dark eyes lit up by jumping flames.

 

“I made up your bed, it’s down the hall,” Bilbo says flatly, and Thorin turns to him. The way Thorin looks at him over his shoulder, for a moment Bilbo thinks everything is going to be just fine; they’ll settle in together as old friends, as though dragon fire and sickness never came between them. But it isn’t all fine, and Thorin simply nods and trudges off down the hall, bypassing Bilbo without a second glance, disappearing into the softly-lit end of the hall.

 

*

 

For the most part, continuing on as Bilbo had been is quite different with a dwarf around. Although he fits quite comfortably into hobbit abodes, the king rather stands out, his massive stature and long beard making him quite the object of many a curious gaze.

 

He’s absolutely rubbish at gardening, Bilbo discovers quickly, as he settles down in the front bed in the morning, Thorin wordlessly behind him. The dwarf pulls up the plants along with the weeds, crushes healthy leaves under his clumsy thumbs, damages roots with his heavy boots. Finally, Bilbo has him go barefoot after one too many young potatoes get kicked up, and the dwarf diminishes with embarrassment, looking quite put-out as the crumbly dirt squishes under his bare toes.

 

At cooking and cleaning he’s no better, although what the dwarf manages to produce is tasty and nourishing, he makes a right mess while doing it and burns nearly everything. When they clean and dust the shelves, he knocks more things over than he does polish them rightly. It’s not that he’s clumsy, or out-of-sorts, it’s just clear that he’s not used to living in a place where everything _has_ a place, and has to stay in order. After one too many a dejected sigh at the dwarf’s hasty handling of his things, Bilbo forgets order altogether, and clumps all of the knickknacks on the hearth together into one haphazard group. The portraits of old Tooks on the wall go quite un-dusted.

 

The only place where having a dwarf companion comes in handy is the market. No one dares try and take advantage of Bilbo’s generosity when he has a hulking dwarven warrior at his shoulder. There’s no need for Bilbo’s “yes, thank you, no, thank you, that’s quite alright, I have plenty already,” when Thorin is near, staring curiously over his shoulder at every pushy farmer and smarmy merchant. The needless questions and paltry pleasantries also come to an end with Thorin around – suddenly everyone in town is quite content to let Bilbo go on with his business undisturbed.

 

For the most part, Thorin follows Bilbo around, much like a child trails after his parents, standing a good few steps back, looking around curiously, not saying a word save for his pleases and thank yous. No one approaches him, out of caution or politeness, save for the darling little ones: children small enough to hide under their mothers’ skirts are quick to dash up to the handsome stranger and pluck at his long coat and shiny buttons. Mothers pull them away quickly but Thorin seems undisturbed, addressing the little ones with kindly smiles and how do you dos.

 

One day at the market, Bilbo decides – without any verbal input from the decidedly silent dwarf lord, of course – to buy a rack of lamb for dinner that evening, and as he’s about to hand over the money to the butcher, Thorin wordlessly takes his hand and presses three coins into it. He pinches Bilbo’s wrist, folding his hand over the gold with his thick fingers, looking away as though he’s quite prepared to be rid of it. It must be his way of attempting to pull his weight, Bilbo thinks, and with a sigh he makes the payment, and shoves the remainder in his pocket.

 

The feel of Thorin’s hot hand lingers against his skin for the rest of the evening, tucked in his pocket like a trinket, precious and out of sight.

 

*

 

The only person brave enough to approach him about his new companion is Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of course. After returning to the Shire to find her elbow-deep in his possessions, their relationship had grown rather more tenuous, still with her quite unwilling to leave him be, and him unwilling to spare her a moment.

 

“Hired yourself a bodyguard, is it?” Lobelia shouts across the street before marching up to Bilbo’s front yard, settling herself behind his gate. Bilbo looks around to see that Thorin is quite out of sight – inside Bag End preparing supper, in fact – and then shakes his head at her.

 

“He’s not—” he begins breathlessly, ducking his head in secrecy, “he’s not a bodyguard.”

 

“A lawyer, then? I’ve heard tales of the shrewdness of their lot,” she goes on, unabashed in her wild claims, as usual, “honestly, if you wished to protect your assets so badly, why not invest in a _hobbit_ banker, at least!”

 

“He’s not a banker, or a lawyer,” Bilbo answers back, face flushing with frustration. He’s quite ready to give the woman a piece of his mind, but restrains himself for fear that Thorin might come out to see what the matter is if he hears.

 

“A gentleman suitor, then?” Lobelia asks pointedly, and Bilbo feels like an arrow was just launched into his gut.

 

Bilbo shrinks and goes quiet, looking over his shoulder at his front door, heavy oak ajar, letting out a gleam of candlelight. “He’s not…not a suitor…”

 

“That’s it, isn’t it?!” Lobelia shouts in rage, quite horrified of the idea that anyone else might have claim to encroach upon her inheritance, “it’s in quite poor taste, marrying in secret, you must know. And a _dwarf,_ no less. And at your age? What are you _thinking?_ I have a mind to—”

 

“Lobelia. Please. Stop,” Bilbo asks firmly, and to his astonishment, she actually does.

 

Lobelia stares curiously at her in-law for a moment, lips pinched into a tight frown, peering over his shoulder at the light coming from inside Bag End. For a moment she feels compelled to ask, exactly _what_ and _who_ happened all those years ago, but blessedly, she chooses not to, turning on her heel to leave, petticoats swishing around her as she stomps away.

 

Bilbo stays out on the porch, shoulders hunched, for a good long moment, thinking about _what,_ exactly, Thorin is to him. He’s not a suitor, not a bodyguard, not a servant – his skill in the garden should make that clear, at least. Not even “old friend” is a suitable designation. “King” never seemed to apply, either, because he was never Bilbo’s king. He was...

 

He’s a memory, distant, like a portrait on the wall, frozen in time, unmarred by the gathering dust. A monument, a statue, settled inside an old hobbit’s grotto, bent over the fire, pipe in hand, singing songs about the past.

 

He’s a beloved memory, warm and steady, firm fingers and heated breast, eyes dark with devotion and, very, very long ago, love.

 

*

 

One thing the dwarven king failed to pack was a dressing gown, a grievance Bilbo thought to remedy as quickly as possible.

 

He’d never thought about how to go about tailoring night clothes; it all seemed a very extravagant idea: the custom was you received pajamas and the like as gifts from well-meaning aunts, or you simply _had_ them already.

 

Scrubbing his hands down his face to eliminate some of the sleepiness in his eyes – Bilbo has been sleeping fretfully ever since Thorin arrived, for reasons he felt were beyond explanation or alarm – he pulls his grandfather’s dressing gown from storage and shakes out the dust.

 

It looks remarkably good on Thorin, blue and gold – _gold-coloured_ thread, that is, dyed with saffron, not actual gold weave – and outlines his shoulders appropriately. However on Bilbo’s grandfather it had fallen to below his knees, on Thorin it barely covered his lap. Still, it was better than having to wear a fur travelling coat around the house in the evening when it got cold.

 

“Hardly kingly vestments, I’m afraid, but suitable for Bag End,” Bilbo says good-naturedly, and Thorin stares at him with such shock Bilbo nearly jumps back in surprise. The blank look on Thorin’s face makes Bilbo immediately regret the first thing he had said to the king that wasn’t having to do with where to put away his clean dish, or where he needed to dust next.

 

“I seceded from the throne,” Thorin says immediately, by way of explanation, and as calmly as if he were discussing the state of business in the Bree. Wringing his hands, his robe pulled gently across his broad chest, the dwarf suddenly looks smaller, closer than he had since he arrived. Maybe it’s because that was the longest succession of words he had spoken since he came, but Bilbo never expected his first words to be thus.

 

“Then who…?” Bilbo asks softly, before he can stop himself.

 

“Fili,” Thorin answers, “the throne was his all along. He’s good for it – strong-minded, and level-headed. Perhaps caring for his brother keeps him grounded in a way caring for the two of them did not help me.”

 

Bilbo simply nods, at a loss for how to respond. Royal politics were never his forte, or his place to discuss. And the last time he tried getting involved he nearly instigated a tragedy beyond measure.

 

Suddenly, Thorin steps forward, the folds of his coat swishing with the wind he creates, his steps like a storm, as he comes within arm’s reach of Bilbo, and promptly reaches out and grabs his hands.

 

“Bilbo, I—” the king—er, _lord,_ perhaps he should be called, now, if anything—stutters, holding Bilbo’s small fingers in his own mighty hands. His thumbs stroke the back of Bilbo’s palms, the soft skin prickling under his callouses, as he stares Bilbo in the eyes with unwavering might.

 

His eyes are heavy, an ever-charming blue hue, bright like cornflowers, or forget-me-nots. The lamplight of the evening glows on his pale skin, across his firm brow and sparkles in his beard, turning the greys and light hairs gold. Bilbo stares up at him, aware that his mouth is falling open, watching in awe like some affected waif. He cares little. Thorin is looking at him with a look so sincere and open, it’s as if only the two of them exist in the whole world. It’s not unlike that night, long ago but never forgotten…

 

“Thank you for the dressing gown,” Thorin says softly, squeezing Bilbo’s hands one last time before releasing him, and stepping away. “I’ll turn in, now,” he says plainly, “goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight,” Bilbo answers automatically, his lips closing into a thin line. His heart is beating stronger and faster than it has in ages, it seems, like he’s just been running for his life, chased down by a warg, hunted by a spider, pinned down by an archer. He holds a hand over his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath the bones, permanent and unceasing.

 

*

 

They go for a walk in the mid-morning along the East Farthing trail. Bilbo brings his basket and pocketknife to gather herbs, sliding one hand through the hoop of the handle, and the other through Thorin’s bent arm. Walking arm-in-arm they look like proper gentlehobbits – or dwarves, he supposes – at least they won’t be mistaken for spoilt rich inheritor and bodyguard in such a pose, Bilbo thinks, remembering keenly back to the quarrel with Lobelia.

 

The truth is, Bilbo could just as easily buy the herbs at the market or the apothecary, but he needs something to do, to get himself – and Thorin – out of the house. Marching down the trail, as inconsequential as it is, feels more comfortable than being in cramped living quarters with a decidedly stoic dwarf who spends every day following obediently after Bilbo, and every night brooding where he thinks the hobbit can’t see.

 

The trail is straight, bending only at the very end, where it turns into honest wilderness, outside of the Shire’s borders, with many branchings-off probably made by hobbits stomping down the grasses on their way off the path to some mushrooms or other plants. Bilbo sees doc, lamb’s ear and thyme on the side of the path and bends to take a sprig or two from each plant, leaving the rest of the stalk intact so that it might recover from his filching to produce more healthy sprigs later. It’s nearly Autumn, and the plants are still growing enthusiastically, getting in as much growing as they can before the weather turns cool.

 

Autumn means that Thorin has been in Hobbiton for nearly three months, now. Three months, without a word about why he came or what he plans to do. Bilbo supposes he can’t blame the notably unsociable dwarf entirely, as he hasn’t made any attempt to _ask_ Thorin why he’s staying. What was his plan? to secede the throne to his kin, and then retire to the Shire for the rest of his days? Why the Shire, when all of the Middle Earth was available to the well-travelled, not to mention well-heeled dwarf?

 

The forest path goes on and Bilbo ponders it as they walk, removing his arm from Thorin’s and walking a few steps ahead. The leaves above them are just barely starting to turn from healthy green to subtle yellow, the flowers dropping their greying petals on the mossy ground. Bilbo sifts through a patch of herbs with one out-stretched hand, finding nothing of use, absentmindedly running his fingers back and forth through the springy undergrowth while Thorin hovers behind him.

 

“This is one of them, isn’t it?” Thorin asks, and Bilbo turns to see him bending dutifully over a patch of comfrey, reaching down to pluck a few stems from the ground. The hobbit nods, mutely, getting to his feet.

 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Bilbo is striding up to Thorin, standing above him, the basket clenched tightly under one arm, the other stiff at his side. It’s like his body moved on its own and now that he’s only inches from Thorin’s back does he realize what happened.

 

His hands start to tremble and his legs start to quiver, a flush building up on his chest as he opens his mouth, taking a deep breath.

 

“I’m sorry for what I did. Well, not for my actions, but for the pain I inflicted on you. I knew it would hurt you and I’m sorry,” Bilbo lets out in a rush, wringing his hands, speaking to Thorin’s back.

 

Thorin stands, then, one hand grasping the purple flowers, the other loosely at his side. At his full height he towers over Bilbo, as usual, and the sudden change in vantage point, while he is used to it by now, makes Bilbo’s heart jump somewhere into his throat. Staring down the dwarf is no easier than it was last time, and given that the last time ended with Thorin’s hands around his throat, Bilbo can’t help the frantic fluttering of his heart.

 

“But you must know that I did it because I feared the alternative – I just didn’t want any more bloodshed,” Bilbo admits helplessly, voice coming out dry and cracking like shale stone, “but you were right to hate me for my actions. Anyone would have. So if you’re here to make amends, know that you don’t need to.”

 

Thorin is wordless, stiff like a statue hewn of rock. His blue eyes turn dark in the shadow of his brow, his lips sealed together in a thin line. But he affords Bilbo his full attention, the honesty and weight of it makes Bilbo want to curl in on himself, disappear into the shadows. He thinks briefly of the ring in his pocket and his stomach turns.

 

“ _Or_ if you’re here to tell me off for it, know that I’m feeling adequately guilty as it is so there’s no need,” Bilbo stutters, voice cracking with unshed tears. His eyes sting but he won’t let them fall, standing here rambling before Thorin is humiliating enough as it is, without him turning into a blubbering, sobbing fop. “E-everything that needs to be s-said has been said already.”

 

Bilbo finishes and lifts his hands in admission, as if to say to Thorin, _do with me as you will_. He’s quite prepared to be shouted at, glared at, or stiffly abandoned on the little forest trail, to watch Thorin’s back as he goes, _again,_ from his sight.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin lets out on a breath, like the wind has been pushed out of him all in a rush. He stares the hobbit straight in the eyes, clear-sky blue connecting with his own beleaguered gaze.

 

“For these past years, you have always been on my mind. Every once in a while, every month, every week, it grew more common until there wasn’t a day that I wasn’t thinking of you,” Thorin explains, the expression on his face unreadable. “Like a nymph, a muse, you were, always on my mind, to the point that I…almost called out to you, forgetting you weren’t there. A few times.”

 

The dwarf lord blushes, then, recounting the scandalized look on Dwalin’s face when Thorin had accidently called him by the halfling’s name, the deeply sorry one on Balin’s.  Before the old dwarf left on his own adventure to reclaim Moria, he offered one piece of advice to the then-king, and that was that there are some things that cannot go unexplored. Much like Balin’s journey to find closure about the loss of a once mighty kingdom, Thorin needed to go and seek out the infamous loss which plagued him for so many years.

 

“I realized while I recovered from my wounds, and watched my kin recover from theirs…” Thorin’s eyes go misty at that, the image of his two bedridden nephews still a lucid memory, even when his mind was still clouded by sickness and injuries of his own, “that there are things in this world more important than power, or revenge, or…gold.”

 

Bilbo doesn’t know what to stay, standing there mutely, hands trembling at his sides while Thorin confesses. It feels like mighty speech, suited for a grand hall or intimate dining table, not for the middle of the woods, beneath the gently-swaying trees and among the flickering yellow grasses.

 

“I knew that what passed between us was…special,” Thorin went on, confidence shaken, but his head held high, “at first I simply thought I needed to see you to get closure, to tell you that…I forgive you.” His eyes go wide, as if with realization. “I forgive you, Bilbo.”

 

Bilbo feels his heart rocket up into his throat like a firework. He can’t move, can’t breathe, and feels for a moment that it would take no more than a particularly ambitious gust of wind to blow him over. Those words were the ones he never knew he needed to hear, until now that he’s heard them. From the looks of it, the relief he feels it shared by Thorin, whose eyes are livelier and his cheeks with more colour than Bilbo’s seen since…ever.

 

“I thought that’s all I needed, to tell you that I forgive you. That I am thankful for you. That I still feel the love I confessed to you that night beneath the Carrock and the waning light of a Summer moon,” Thorin rambles, voice swelling with emotion that draws Bilbo closer. He can’t help it, his feet are moving on their own, crossing the distance between them. “But being with you these past few weeks I realized that it is more than that: the truth is that these days I have spent by your side are more precious than all the gold, in all the mountains of this world.”

 

Bilbo runs the last few steps that bring him into Thorin’s space and he all-but leaps into his arms, throwing his arms around the dwarf’s neck and drawing him close, as close as he can manage, before Thorin scoops him off of his feet, and pulls him into the tightest embrace. Huge arms squeeze him tight, Thorin’s great beard stuffed into his shoulder, the dwarf’s nose on his neck, his grip unwavering. Bilbo hugs back with all of his might, letting a few unbidden tears trickle down his nose and into the weave of Thorin’s tunic, squeezing his eyes shut and savoring the moment.

 

They stay like that for what seems like ages, Thorin letting Bilbo down to the ground, holding him close while Bilbo balances on his toes and clings to the dwarf’s waist. Thorin nudges Bilbo’s crown with his nose until the hobbit turns up towards him and they put their foreheads together, touching noses, cheeks, brows, Bilbo’s tears falling unheeded and Thorin’s face alive with colour.

 

Finally, they part, and Thorin wordlessly, smile brimming, pushes the tiny bouquet – barely a posy, really – of purple comfrey towards Bilbo, and the hobbit has to keep himself from laughing with joy. He clutches the posy in one hand and takes Thorin’s in the other, and they walk all the way back to Hobbiton in that fashion, and for all the respectability in the world Bilbo wouldn’t let go.

 

*

 

When he left The Lonely Mountain, Bilbo hadn’t planned on making love again. He figured he would live his life solitary and hassle-free, without the bothers that came from searching for a compatible partner, alone with his books and his garden. It’s not that he felt that he could never love another after Thorin – it was too painful to think of their relationship with such finality – but that he didn’t want to, whether he could or not.

 

But now, wrapped in the dwarf’s arms as they lie, finally, blessedly upon a bed of linen and straw rather than grass and stone, the urges and desires come back to him as surely as they had never left. He wonders how he could ever do without.

 

The only thing that worries him is that he might’ve forgotten how. Thorin works almost expertly at his neck, knowing just where to kiss and nip and nuzzle to make Bilbo’s furry toes curl with delight, while Bilbo whines and squirms and accepts the attention. He pulls gently at Thorin’s hair in answer, running his fingers along the scalp, feeling rock-hard bone beneath the smooth hair, trying to remember just how the dwarf used to enjoy the slight tug. Bilbo squirms as Thorin starts to sink lower, planting a wet kiss on his exposed collarbone and pulling his shirt from his waistband with one thick hand.

 

“Wait,” Bilbo warns as Thorin starts to peel up his shirt and reveal the soft flesh underneath, “it’s been a long while; I’m not nearly as fit as I was ten years ago.”

 

Thorin smiles at the hobbit’s modesty, pulling his shirt back down so that Bilbo might remove it himself when he is comfortable. “I assure you, you look as though you haven’t aged a day,” Thorin assures softly, placing a kiss on Bilbo’s brow.

 

Thorin sits up, then, out of reach of Bilbo’s grasping hands and removes his dressing gown, letting it slump to the floor. The bed is narrow but fits two quite nicely, Bilbo on one side and Thorin on the other, quite audacious, really, even for a married couple. But Bilbo can’t spare a moment to dwell on the scandal of it all, enraptured by the look of Thorin, stripped to his underclothes and remarkably vulnerable, leaning over Bilbo’s body so that his long hair trails across Bilbo’s belly.

 

Bilbo sits up as well, then, moving so that he is in the crook of Thorin’s arm, reaching forward to grip at the collar of his tunic. He pulls gently at the laces, working them apart with small fingers, until he can get it over Thorin’s head, with the dwarf’s assistance, tossing it to the floor to join his blue and gold dressing gown and leaving him bare from the waist up.

 

Even when they were together all those years ago, it was in the wilds and they scarcely removed all of their clothes, due to the cold. Now, seeing Thorin like this, naked and vulnerable – not a king, not a warrior, just a dwarf, proud and strong, dedication flowing through his chest like the blood in his veins, was almost too surreal, it made Bilbo feel woozy. He reaches out and touches Thorin’s body like it is an anchor, his hand sliding into the thick fur of his chest, trembling for no real reason – Thorin is _here._ He _is_ here. He is alive, and breathing, and warm. There is no reason for Bilbo to be filled with such anxiety all of the sudden.

 

As if sensing his grief, or perhaps mirroring it himself, Thorin leans forward so that his forehead meets Bilbo’s, wrapping a securing arm around his shoulders. They stay like that while Bilbo takes a few shuddering breaths, before allowing himself to be laid back on the bed, feeling suddenly small beneath the once-king’s impressive stature.

 

Thorin leans forward on one elbow and kisses him, then, properly, his lips warm and firm, and at that moment the tears began to fall. Bilbo feels heat behind his eyelids, squeezing them shut and letting the heat roll from his eyes, kissing back as firmly as he can. Thorin reaches up to cup his face in one mighty hand and Bilbo grabs his fingers, gripping tightly as they share their first kiss in a decade.

 

“I love you,” the words slip out from Bilbo’s lips, shaky and meek as they pull apart, before he can even think about it, “I just love you. So, so much.”

 

Thorin answers with another kiss, soft and treasured, covering the hobbit’s body with his own like a blanket.

 

When Thorin enters him moments later, it’s like being placed back inside a memory, sliding into place in an old portrait, of two dear companions, with little in common but their profound love.

 

*

 

“I had no idea what I was going to do when I got here,” Thorin admits quietly, answering the question Bilbo wanted to ask for a few days now, when they’re lying in Bilbo’s snug bed, wrapped up in each other like two otters tangling for warmth. “I only knew that I wanted to see you. I had no idea where I would live or what I would do after that. It was a rather impulsive decision, I realize now.”

 

“Impulsive…” Bilbo muses, turning his head into Thorin’s chest, nuzzling the warm skin of his neck, “no, that doesn’t sound like anyone _I_ know.”

 

Thorin smiles and buries a kiss in Bilbo’s curly hair, still sweaty from their prior activities, curling delightfully at the dirty-blond tips.

 

“What about now?” Bilbo asks softly, turning his head so that he can look up at Thorin, in whose arms he is firmly held. “Do you have any plans for what you’re going to do from now on?”

 

“No, I can’t say I have. Do you?” Thorin replies, smile reaching all the way to the corners of his eyes, which crinkle so endearingly with age, Bilbo can’t wait to see what changes the next ten years will affect on his handsome face.

 

Bilbo smiles back, so broad he can feel tears prick the corners of his eyes. “I suppose we can figure it out together.”

 


End file.
